


The sweetest revenge is forever.

by A_Quiet_Place



Series: Dream Weavers Anonymous [1]
Category: Constantine (2005), Constantine (Comic), Constantine (TV)
Genre: AU, Dreams and Nightmares, Mind Games, Minor Character Death, Revenge, Same Performer in Different Roles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-11
Updated: 2016-10-11
Packaged: 2018-08-21 20:50:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8260120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_Quiet_Place/pseuds/A_Quiet_Place
Summary: John Constantine is a professor of occultism helping to solve a series of murders. Things begin to spiral out of control as other wordly things begin to happen around him.Reworked to add more chapters and better writing!Part 1





	1. 1985

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John becomes entrenched in the world of a killer

From a distance it almost looks like a setting inside a snow globe. Soft snow flakes swirling about her still form; the red and blue of the siren lights reflecting gently off the snow bank. Vibrant police vests lighting up from the oncoming traffic and yellow and black tape cordons off the area, keeping the growing crowds of people at bay.   
  
It all seems rather beautiful from afar.  
  
John Constantine takes his time, drinking in the scene. His steps are measured, slow enough to hold the image in his eye for just a moment longer-- tripping along the fine line between fiction to reality as his breath mists in the air.  
  
The sun has barely risen, and the whiskey from the night before is still working its way out of his system announcing its departure with a slight headache and a sour taste in his mouth.

He can't remember the last time he has been functional at this hour, if ever. He hasn't even had his first coffee yet and the first cigarette of the day has only just touched the edges of his craving.  
  
John waits until he's only a few feet away before he tares his gaze from the lazily dancing snowflakes, letting the last little bit of beautiful surrealism slip away before he settles his sights on the victim.   
  
She is naked, the snow her only cover as it settles on her flesh in a light dusting as if to try and hide her indecency. Her freezing dead flesh has turned a deep blue around her fingers and toes and her hollow eye sockets stare blankly upwards. Her blue tinged lips are slightly parted, as if about to utter a surprised cry. It is unlikely she had a chance to call for help, as she no longer has a tongue, or vocal cords for that matter.  
  
She has not been out here very long, a few hours at most. Her body has been dumped on the side of a country road, barely missing sliding into the ditch beside her. Even this far out of the city the crowd of people milling about and slowing up traffic was enough to make getting to the scene a bit of a nightmare.

A trucker had called it in at first light, about an hour ago. He sits in the back of an ambulance now wrapped in a blanket with a perpetually startled look on his face while an ambulance officer talks to him in a soothing tone, trying to coax the distance out of his eyes.   
  
The cause of her death on paper is uncertain, in the flesh it is anticipated. All the time in the world can be wasted on forensics but John will stake his life on what has killed her. She will have internal bleeding caused, unbelievably, by a horde of a variety of insects. None of which would attack a person in such a way or swarm together.   
  
There will be carcasses, droppings and insect bites all through her flesh, and not an organ left. She is just a husk of a human being now, only muscle bone and skin as the strange and perplexing left overs from the freak attack.  
  
Constantine almost cringes in anticipation as they finally lift her onto the gurney. He catches a glimpse of something he has come to expect-- the killers calling card. He is certain that on closer inspection the gaping wounds in the flesh of her back will form a symbol that looks like a runic 'J', just like all the other victims.   
  
He feels his stomach lurch and he turns his gaze away. He doesn't think he will ever get used to seeing the mutilated dead, human sacrifice on paper is a lot less horrific than the actual tangible corpse before him, it also seems a lot less _impossible_.

The circumstances of her death are certifiably insane, like nothing anyone of them has ever seen before. It's straight out of some sort of cliché horror film with a corpse that looks so unreal it might as well be a dummy in heavy make-up.

“Not your garden variety of serial killer.” He mutters grimly, watching the body disappear under the cover of the body bag, a few insect bodies fall to the snow beneath the gurney on transport. “Or perhaps it is.” He huffs, trying to stifle the hysteric laughter that threatens to bubble up.  
  
It's going to kill John to keep that joke to himself.  
  
The case is starting to get to him, his usual aloof manner is just a little less and his shoulders hunch up just a little more. It isn't just the corpses or the manner in which they died, there is something else, something _wrong_ that he can't put his finger on, a niggling little detail he has overlooked.  
  
The investigation has been going on for months now and they are four corpses deep in the case. The news papers are calling the killer 'The Countryside cutter' and making the usual jabs at the force for not catching the monster fast enough.   
  
John's old high school friend, Chas Kramer, has been the lead detective from the start of the murders. The moment Constantine had seen the second article in the news he had called the detective up and demanded to see the crime scenes in person. Chas, already without a lead, had acquiesced in the hopes that John's doctorate in occultism will shed some light on the killers motives.  
  
John hadn't considered the mental stress that would tag along with the case, he had been too busy with the excitement of putting his long years of study to work on something so meaningful.  
  
But now...  
  
Now, it's become personal. He's beginning to feel like the culprit is deliberately pushing him towards a mental break down. Lack of sleep, alcohol abuse, tantalising clues that lead down the road to nowhere.   
  
They have already barred him from smoking near the crime scene, claiming contamination. His hands shake within the depths of his pockets, his nerves are shot and the last strains of sweet nicotine are the only thing holding him together. John can already feel the craving claw it's way to the fore front of his mind, making him grit his teeth.   
  
It will be a long day.   
  
He takes one last look at their Jane Doe as the final flashes of the swarming media's camera's go off, semi blinding him. Her eyelashes catch snow flakes as the empty sockets stare into nothing and her dark hair sprawls behind her like spilled satin, frozen stiff. As the body bag zips up around her face he wonders if anyone will come forward to claim her. None of the others have had a positive ID yet.  
  
He pulls himself away and heads back towards the police car blockade. Tired eyes darting around the empty fields as his hands dig into his coat pockets, already seeking out the banged up cigarette packet.  
  
It bothers him that the bodies are dumped in the open, something about a serial murderer who also showcases his work reeks of some twisted pride. It's a challenge and a mockery all in one.

He slips a cigarette between his lips and lights it, inhaling the first breath of nicotine with shaky urgency.  
  
"Think it's another one?" John's toxin induced bliss is interrupted by the voice of Detective Kramer. He hardly even glances at John as he speaks, his eyes are trained warily on the victim as she's wheeled away. His hands are shoved deep into the pockets of his rumpled canvas jacket and his shoulders are hunched against the cold. The tips of his ears and nose are turning bright pink in the crisp morning air but he wont dress appropriately until the lakes start freezing over.

Chas is a man in his early thirties, grey streaks beginning to decorate his trimmed beard and dark hair. He wears his usual leather golf hat, white shirt and worn jeans, completing his look of aging bachelor in need of someone to take care of him.  
  
"Yeah." John exhales a cloud of smoke with the word and flicks the butt of the cigarette, dislodging the spent ash.   
  
“It's too early for this shit.” Kramer grumbles with a tired look in his eyes. John only nods in agreement and eyes the detectives coffee with growing envy.  
  
"You got anything?" Chas finally asks, wrestling a notepad out of his pocket with one hand. It's a little pre-emptive but John doesn't blame him, at this stage he'd be jumping on any new information like a dog presented with a pigs ear.

“Maybe, don't know.” Constantine exhales a cloud of smoke.   
  
"Shit." Chas lets out a sigh, his breath coming out in a cloud of steam. He sets the half-drunk coffee on the roof of one of the patrol cars and fishes a pen from his pocket. “Every time I see a damn fly in my house I just about shit myself.” He grumbles, scribbling across the soft cardboard cover of his notebook to get the ballpoint working.

It's the detectives first big case, he's nervous as hell and already grasping at straws. John's lack of conviction is not filling him with confidence.   
  
“That is why we drink, Chas.” John exhales and rubs a hand over his jaw. “Ask around, see if anyone has noted any out of place smells.” He drops the cigarette butt on the ground and stubs it out with his boot heel.   
  
“That a joke?” Chas takes a moment to squint at him accusingly before subtly sniffing the air.   
  
John huffs slightly out of his nose and shakes his head. “Just ask, it's all I've got at the moment. Anything out of the expected.”  
  
Kramer sighs and nods to Constantine before heading back towards the scene, leaving his coffee behind cooling on the roof of the car.   
  
John is an opportunist, the drink doesn't stand a chance.  
  
He hasn't outright told Chas what he's looking for because he's beginning to doubt his own soundness of mind. There has been a particular and fleeting scent in the air present at the past two crime scenes not unlike sulfur, only he couldn't pin point its origin and it was gone so fast it had him questioning whether or not he had just stepped into some ones shit cloud.

At least that's what he had thought until he had gone home. The smell had permeated into his clothing and no amount of dry cleaning would get it out. He'd almost had screaming fits at two different cleaners when they denied all sense of smell.

The police councilor told him it was stress.  
  
 _Bullshit._  
  
He is almost expecting it when the scent reaches his nose once more and he hastily lights up another cigarette to waft the smell away. If anyone else makes note of it he'll know he hasn't gone off the deep end and Chas wont think he's seeing demons popping out from under his bed.  
  
He inhales sharply, filling his lungs with nicotine as he opens his own journal, a battered leather bound thing that has seen better days, and flips to a well loved page in the middle. The ominous 'J' symbol peers back at him from a grainy photograph.  
  
John has spent many a sleepless night trying to hunt down the symbol to no avail but he knew the signs, someone is trying desperately hard to make these attacks look like they are a form of demon worship, one that yields results. It has been working the media up into a frenzy, teenagers and demon worshipers are beside themselves with joy.  
  
So they are after a delusional psychopath, but a smart one.

What is more infuriating is that John has the nagging feeling that he _knows_ the symbol from somewhere but he can't place it and neither can any of his contacts. _The useless bloody lot of them._

There hasn't even been so much as a license plate or car make to help the investigation, it was like the victims just rolled themselves out onto the road. Perhaps they were all adventuring nudists wandering alone in the middle of winter, ones who liked to be gnawed on by recreational insects. It was as sound a theory as any they had come up with so far.  
  
The victims have nothing to connect them either, chosen at random by all accounts. Different roads, no particular dumping pattern. The murderer kept their habits out of their hobby.  
  
The body of the girl is being loaded up at last, off to the coroners table to be tagged, photographed and dissected, not necessarily in that order. John snaps his journal shut and pinches the bridge of his nose before returning an almost heart breaking look of question from Chas with a shake of his head. He has nothing.

Constantine heads out, irritable and tired, nothing but breakfast and whiskey on his mind. He's got to start pulling up some answers or he's going to lose his god-damned mind.  
  
He takes a moment to mull over his options as he drives towards his home office. He can use the rest of the day to pour over his avalanche of books for the umpteenth time, and when that inevitably brings no results, he is going to have to call in several monumental favors using Chas as a sort of buffer to gain access to restricted reading sections pulled in from all over the country.   
  
There are no promises and little time to wait for the information to get through the fucking maze of bureaucracy before he gets to spend weeks pouring over it all. And for all the information he does get he could very well be chasing a figment of a deranged imagination. The symbol might be completely made up for the murderers own delusional purposes, though John would swear on his nan's grave that he has seen it somewhere before. It had to have stemmed from something, a reference to insects, a poster for a horror flick. He just can't think of _anything_.  
  
It isn't his job, it's Kramer's, John knows that. But the degrees of separation are narrowing down. This is his field, and how often does someone with his credentials get called in to help out on a serial killer? _Never._  
  
He knows there's something he's missing, it's a nagging feeling that is keeping him up all night pulling his hair out.

John can solve this, save lives. He can be the hero, put his name and field on the map, if only he can force himself to remember where he has seen that bloody glyph before.   
  
He makes a hasty decision and turns the car around, heading back the way he came. A twenty minute drive later and he pulls into the parking lot of the Way Point. A rare antiques, artifacts and junk store. Once or twice he has found something of worth here, but the majority of it is rusty, dust mite ridden crap.   
  
He knows he's hitting rock bottom when he starts harassing antique stores, but he's running out of places and people to turn to.

The Way Point owner, Bernie Nelson, is the kind of guy to remember the face of a customer years after selling them something. So on the off chance lady luck isn't shitting all over John's day he is willing to pay the shopkeeper a visit. Of course it's far too early for the shop to be open, so it gives him ample time to light a cigarette or three and find a coffee shop.   
  
By the time Bernie opens up, John is wide awake and just about twitching with the coffee/nicotine combo. He pulls himself out of the beat up car and stubs the latest cigarette out on the gravel before heading into the shop. His trench coat is creased from sitting and his unshaven face paired with bloodshot eyes make him look like he'd slept in his car, or he's a spent the night on a bender, both answers technically not wrong.   
  
Bernie raises his eyebrows at but says nothing. _Bless him_.  
  
Bernie is a ripened middle aged man with a well receded hair line and cherubic like features. He favors tweed in all forms, and patches the elbows of his jackets himself. His wife has been dead coming on five years, which is a good thing, she had hated John with a vindictive passion. Which, incidentally, is why Bernie likes him.   
  
"Hey Bernie," John offers a half-hearted wave whilst moving around the clutter in the store. He takes pains to avoid knocking the piles of dust collectors down, but it's no easy task, especially not in his state.  
  
"John! How are you? _How are you,_ my boy?" Bernie is also English, he has a Coronation street kindly old man vibe to him that John had immediately taken to.  
  
"Not too shabby." John offers a smile, making his way towards the counter, ducking under some hand carved wooden chimes that hang from the ceiling.  
  
"Not too shabby?" Bernie shakes his head, "If you were any shabbier I'd call you an antique and stick a price on you."  
  
John smirks and lowers his chin in an act of shame. His hand subconsciously smooths out his hair as if it would save his appearance. Bernie chuckles and sets the cloth and cleaner out of view, his chubby hands rubbing against each other as if the motion would rid them of the chemical compound.  
  
"So, let me guess. Not a social visit, no matter what line you spin me." He raises a hand to forestall John's objection. "Not here to buy." He trails off, sucking his teeth in thought while he appraised the other man. "I've got something you want, though, I can see it in those puppy dog eyes."  
  
"I hope so, Bernie." John admits, reaching into his breast pocket and tugging out his battered journal. "I really do, because no one else has shi- ah, no one else has _anything_." John stumbles a bit over his own words while he thumbs through the various bookmarks and rubber bands holding the pages together. Eventually he finds the right section and places it on the counter, spinning it around for the older man to see.   
  
"Again, John?" Bernie eyes the symbol crudely scribbled there with slight exasperation.  
  
"I know, Bernie, but I'm running out of options. Please just look at it again, see if it sparks up anything?" Constantine tries and fails to keep the desperation out of his voice.   
  
Bernie sighs and pulls a pair of reading glasses out of his shirt pocket. He eyes the symbol for the second time in a handful of months.  
  
"Sorry to say, yet again, my boy, I haven't a clue. Nothings come up since the last time you asked, I would have called." John feels his heart drop. His mind already racing through a string of other questions in hope that Bernie might answer at least one of them.  
  
"What if I told you it had something to do with insects? The old testament kind." Bernie shakes his head again, much to John's dismay. "It was made with a knife- the symbol I mean, right? So I'm thinking it was a ceremonial piece. Right up your alley. Has anyone asked about knives in the last three months?" It was one hell of a long shot, the knife was likely going to be a family heirloom, passed down from crazy great uncle to crazy great grandchild but he needs to try.  
  
Bernie sighs a bit and frowns as he thinks it over. John's heart skips a beat when the old man raises a finger, wagging it as his mind chases through his mental customer data base.  
  
"Now hold on a minute, I might- yes, I might have something. Just let me find- _where did I put the bloody thing?_." Bernie begins shuffling into the back room of the shop, his hands busily dig through his 'filing system', which is a mass of unsorted, but painstakingly hand written receipts. John feels his heart beat pick up a few notches. He tucks his journal away pre-emptively in hope.  
  
Bernie emerges a handful of minutes later with a business card in hand. He slides it over to John across the glass counter and smiles, no, _beams_ at the younger man. John looks from the card to Bernie, flipping it over to see if he is missing something.   
It reads:   
  
_The Crossroads Inc.  
Harry Bordon  
Collector & Aquiree  
  
"What's this?"_ John asks with a raised eyebrow, the thudding of his heart drops to the usual pace of despair and disappointment. __  
  
"That is the card of the man who came in a few months ago.” Bernie continues to beam. “He was looking for a ceremonial knife for a client. Of course I didn't have any at the time." Bernie drums his fingers on the glass as he pulled up the memory. "So I told him he might need to contact Bartell's, the auctioneer house, you know the one? Those items usually pop up as family heirlooms, old army bits and bobs."  
  
John taps the card against his fingers, his mind working a mile a minute. It might be something, nothing definitive but it was a thread he could pull on.   
"Can I take this?" He gestured to the card, which is already halfway in his shirt pocket.   
  
"Of course!" Bernie calls out as John is already storming towards the door, his jaw set in determination."Don't be a stranger, John!"

Constantine sets a cigarette between his lips the moment he steps outside, his shoulders relax as he fumbles for his lighter. He feels the weight lift momentarily off his shoulders. He has finally found a way forward, and despite it being a definite maybe of a lead, it doesn't matter, it's _something_.   
  
He pauses as the coiling scent of sulfur shakes him from his internal party. His eyes dart around the car lot, as if he might see the scent trail bared before him. There's nothing but gravel and parked cars, and just like every other time, the offensively fleeting scent has faded once more. He shakes his head and lights his cigarette.   
  
_Get a grip John_.

 


	2. Stranger Danger

Constantine passes the lead over to Chas by pay phone. The Detective sounds apprehensive but willing to follow up. Harry Bordon might be someone worth paying a visit to in the near future, if nothing else the man might have untold treasures hiding in the woodwork just waiting for Constantine's clammy hands.

He sits behind the wheel of his car, eyes still itching from the early start. He's not likely to wake up fully without a thorough swig of Irish coffee, and what better way to relieve stress?  
  
John feels he had earnt the right to drink before twelve; his reward system is not controlled by petty things like restraint or common decency. So he finds himself the nearest shit-hole pub and has his mitts wrapped around a glass of scotch by noon.  
  
He's chosen a spot in the far corner with his journal out while he quietly flicks through the pages. Hoping the latest lead will spark an avalanche of others, despite having gone over his information repeatedly in the last few days.  
  
"Not your usual haunt, Johnny-boy." A husky voice makes Constantine jump. His hands slap down on the pages of his journal, a knee-jerk reaction to protect the information as his head perks up in alarm.  
  
A man sits opposite him who had defiantly not been there before.  
  
The intruder watches John's face like it's a subject of great interest and offers an apologetic smile that doesn't reach his eyes. John stares at him hard, trying to pinpoint in his mind when the stranger had invited himself to sit. He has no recollection of the moment, which was absurd considering the man had to walk around him to get to the seat.  
  
The tailored suit and carefully groomed dark hair make him seem out of place in the pub. There is also something vaguely familiar about him, another point on the list of things John can't place.  
  
"Look, mate, I'm a bit busy so if you could piss off back to your den it'd be appreciated." Constantine goes straight past the who-are-you-and-what-do-you-wants and goes straight for the meat of the matter. He has taken an immediate dislike to the man and his mismatched suit and tie, that and the strangely intense stare from overly perfect features.  
  
"Not even a moment to spare for your number one fan?" The strangers voice is low and controlled to be just above a whisper, something that had probably taken a fair bit of practice.  
  
"I don't want any of your stranger-danger sweets." John takes a swig of the whiskey in his hand, refusing to make eye contact to further provoke the irritation. “I'm busy. If you want a shag go bark up someone elses tree.”  
  
It's only noon for crying out loud, it's far too early to be kicked out of a pub for throwing a punch. John is mentally calculating the expense of the whiskey over the satisfaction of spilling his drink over the suit when the coiling scent of sulfur hits him in a wave. Stronger than it has ever been.  
  
His head shoots up in alarm. "Who the fuck are you?" The suspicion barely masked in his tone.  
  
"An interested third party." The suit smiles again, his eyes showing nothing but a bleak humorless void.  
  
"Of what?" John demands, his eyes narrowing.  
  
"You, John." The reply makes Constantine’s pulse quicken. He leans back in his seat as the suit leans forward with predatory intent written all over his face "You sent your police buddies to follow up that tasty lead you have." The perfect lips moved into a shadow of a frown. “I'm disappointed, Johnny-boy, you were meant to be the one to chase me down the rabbit hole.”  
  
John's eyes fall to the movement of a coin flipping over the backs of the man’s knuckles, drawn to the glinting silver despite his urge to stare the man into submission. He can feel his heartbeat jump into his throat as a glimmer of a familiar symbol flashes to and fro before him. As if he needed any more reason to believe he has just found his serial killer.

His breath halts in his chest.  
  
This conversation has gone from bad to hellish in just a few moments. The questions he had skipped over earlier threaten to pour out in a cliché of panicked anger.  
  
"My face is up here, John." The coin pauses mid rotation.

Constantine's gaze draws reluctantly back to the smooth complexion. He is sitting opposite the man who has made the past few weeks of his life a waking nightmare.  
  
It makes his blood run cold to see the expression of smug awareness on the intruders face.  
  
"It's you. You killed them." John's eyes tare from the man, darting around the room for an escape, for help, for a weapon.  
  
"Did I? Oops." There is no remorse in those dark eyes, no joy, or empathy.  
  
"Why?" John growls. He will have to settle for the glass in his grip should things get out of hand. He already has a white knuckled grasp on the cool surface.  
  
"For you, Johnny-boy. It's all been for you.” The fake smile is back, but John can't see past the man's intense stare. He can feel the blood rushing from his face as the suits words settle into his mind.  
  
“We should really have that private meeting you just denied me with your little phone call.” The man's cultivated whisper is almost seductive “My place, ten sharp. Don't be late Johnny-boy." Those emotionless eyes suddenly fill with silent warning. "And come alone, wont you?” The killer stands up, straightening his tie and offering a final joy-less smile, "I believe you already have my card."  
  
The killer- Harry Bordon, stands smoothly, and places the coin down on the table in front of John as he departs. John is so busy staring at the coin with it's mocking little 'J' symbol he doesn't even see the man leave. It's silver, heavy and about the size of a golf ball in diameter. On one side is the glyph, scratched into the surface and rendering the minted image beyond recognition. The other side is so worn down it's hard to make out, but there appears to be a worn down image of a fly.  
  
Then all at once it's like he can breathe again.

As if the spell keeping him glued to the seat is suddenly broken, John is on his feet, scooping the coin up stuffing it into his pocket. He makes a mad dash out onto the street, with the intention of-- well tackling a serial killer to the pavement if he has to. But there is no sign of anyone as he shoves through the door, as if the man had just vanished into thin air.  
  
John sucks in a breath, the almost suffocating smell of sulfur dissipates into city smells of asphalt and exhaust.  
  
He finds himself sprinting for the nearest pay phone.  
  
His fingers slam in Chas' number before he swears, rifles through his pockets for coins and repeats the process. He notices a moment too late, in his panic that he has just fed the killers coin into the coin slot. He swears so intently he barely even notices the phone has failed to ring until a loud beep startles him back into the present. There's a solid clicking sound of a receiver being cradled on the other end of the line before a soft buzzing comes through.  
  
John swears again, slamming the phone hook a few times with a shaking finger. He punches in Chas' number again, and hisses between his teeth in impatience. He's going to have to tare the booth apart to get the evidence back, but he has paid for the damn call now so he's going to take it.  
  
The buzzing sound persists, getting louder.  
  
Then...  
  
Something vibrates alarmingly against his cheek. John jerks the receiver away form his ear to find a fly crawling it's way over the ear piece. He irritably flicks the insect off and moves to slam the hook down again when another fly appears, and another, crawling out of the much too small holes in the ear piece like they are made out of slime.  
  
John's eyes widen in disbelief. On impulse he flings the receiver away from himself and against the glass wall of the booth, hastily backing out of the folding doors with hurried steps. Not a moment later the phone erupts in a frenzy of swarming, buzzing insects.  
  
_This isn't real. This absolutely isn't real._  
  
He stumbles back to his car, unable to force himself to look towards the insectoid invasion. He throws himself into the divers seat after a tense moment of fumbling with his keys. His hands grip the steering wheel hard as he tries to breathe himself calm.  
  
After a few moments, when his heart beat has slowed to a manageable pace, his eyes glance furtively into the side mirror of his car. The booth reflects back at him was as it had always been, not an insect in sight.

Several minutes pass while he looks from mirror to booth over and over again, before he finally to shakes his head in disbelief and starts the engine. Fuck the coin, he will send someone down to get it later.  
  
He's losing his mind. It has to be the stress.  
  
He'll take his message to Chas personally. The detective would never believe him over the phone anyway. The coin will play a large part in convincing Kramer he hasn't gone crazy.

 


	3. I need a cigarette

Harry Bordon, as it turns out, is a false name. There are no records of the man prior to the business he is the sole employee of. When Chas and his boys moved in on the buildings location they found insects swarming over the ground, their bodies crammed together in the form of that horrid 'J' glyph. Constantine had come to suspect, with horrid clarity, that it was 'J' for John. That all of this was as Harry had said-- a serenade for him alone. It was the little bit of information he had not passed on to the detective. He was more afraid that Chas would put him into protective custody and remove him from the case than he was of being stalked by the killer.

The department made inquiries and Constantine got to sit through a rousing game of 20 questions about the man he had met in the pub. The direct result of their findings had Chas set a guard to watch John, despite the professors insistence that he didn't need one; which was a big lie, but one he was mostly telling himself.

Kramer has been eyeing him suspiciously for the entire ordeal, no doubt thinking over his investigation with uncertainty. John doesn't really blame him, he knows he defiantly has the knowledge to lead the police around on a goose chase, and his stress related habits screamed unstable mind, coupled with his brash uncaring demeanor, he paints a likely suspect. It isn't until they question Bernie that the detective begins to relax. The kindly old man's description of Harry matched John's, and the barkeeper had noticed a man in a suit with John that day.  
  
But there had been no coin to speak of. John wonders if he had imagined it.  
  
The detective had both men talk their way through a police sketch that was aired on the news promptly after completion. The media were all over it in a swarm. John had watched the press conference from the safety of his apartment, feeling tinges of sympathy for Chas as the man fumbles his way through unrelenting questions he can't possibly answer. Constantine can't even make it through to the end of the airing.   
  
  
  


___________________________________________

  
Constantine's guard has been posted outside his door for a week without even a wink from his new friend Harry, but when that wink arrived it almost floors John.   
  
He is woken by a phone call, the shrill noise drilling into his hungover brain that when he finally manages to find his bedside phone, after knocking half of everything else to the floor, his immediate reaction is to curse whoever is on the other end of the line.  
  
"John? John, are you sitting down?" Kramer's voice sounds taught, like he is trying to hide his concern behind layers of false calm.  
  
"Chas? What the fuck time is it?" John rolls over to check his alarm clock with bleary eyes. "Christ, Chas, it's 3am."  
  
"I know, sorry, but are you sitting down?"  
  
"Did you wake me up just to ask me if I was _sitting down_?" John rubs at his eyes feeling his irritation growing.  
  
"John! For fucks sake, I have bad news okay? You _need_ to sit down."  
  
John feels a pit form in his stomach suddenly. His mind kick starts into awake mode as it frantically tares through the possibilities of bad news.  
  
"I'm sitting, wha-Jesus, what's happened?" He is in fact not sitting any more, his blankets are flung from his body as he stumbles in the dark to find his pants.   
  
"It's Bernie, John. I'm sorry." There is a pause as Chas takes in a breath, preparing himself to be the bearer of bad news. Whatever he says next is droned out by a loud buzzing through the phone line.  
  
"What?" John's hands pause their struggle with his slacks, "Chas? Chas!" The buzzing grows louder, the decibels raise swiftly to a level where John has to yank the phone from his ear to stop the pain it causes. Still the sound grows, even away from his ear he can hear the deafening noise take on the sounds of a voice, like fingernails down a blackboard. ' _Johnny-Boy'_  
  
The phone drops from his grip hitting the carpet with a dull thud. He stares at the receiver with wide eyes, his heart pounding in his ribs.   
  
_This can't be happening.  
  
_ The sounds emitting from the phone continue to rise until John is fleeing his small apartment and diving into the hall, hands pressed firmly to his ears and kicking the door shut behind him. The moment the door clicks shut there is silence.  
  
He stands panting and shivering from the cold night air of the stone complex hallway. He lowers his hands from his ears tentatively, ready to spring up and defend his aching ear drums. The continuing quiet only invites his confusion and disbelief, but still, all he can hear is the soft ringing caused by the jarring noise. His panting relief is short lived as he tries to return to his room.   
  
The door has locked itself.   
  
"Come on! Fucking shit- _bollocks_!" His fist slams against the wood paneling. The door remains unsympathetic to his desperation.  
  
As the cold of winter forces goose flesh to crawl over his exposed skin John remembers, in a moment of introspection, that his neighbors hate him. On more than one altercation with them he may have called three of them 'cunts' and threatened to skin the poodle that belongs to the old lady in the room below him. He also may have thrown up in the elevator once or twice, though none of them can prove it was him. Which means he will have to wake the superintendent to get the door open and the woman is going to rip his head off for it. Though at this point he will consider it a favor.   
  
He exhales sharply and rubs his naked arms. His eyes desperately scanning down the darkened hallway.

It dawns on him very suddenly that his watchdog is nowhere to be seen. The evidence of the presence of the nameless and steadfast police guard outside his door is proven only by the vacated seat and cup stain on the concrete floor.   
  
“Where the fuck did you go, mate?” John scowls at the chair, wishing idly he hadn't been such a prick and allowed the watch to stay on his couch.  
  
His teeth begin to chatter and his body shivers uncontrollably at the cold.

He really needs a cigarette.  
  
As if on cue, somewhere to the left of him the soft ping of the elevator announces an arrival. John spins to face the solid metal door panels they part. His voice ready to burst from his lips for aid from whom he is optimistically hoping is the returning policeman. His arms cross in an attempt to retain some body heat and hide some embarrassment; at least he is wearing pants.   
  
The light from the elevator reveals the hallway like the sun rising over a hill, but inside is not any haloed savior, nor anyone at all.

Minutes pass with John starring at the flickering florescent bulb, the doors remain open, inviting him into the cozy carpeted space. John takes a step towards the lift, only to stop immediately, his eyes catching on a small object on the lift floor. He stares in disbelief, blinking rapidly to dispel the almost holy sight of a box of unopened cigarettes.

A laugh bubbles up inside his chest only to be caged behind his lips. It would be a lie to say he isn't tempted to step into the light, the blood pounding in his veins attests to the craving the warmth the nicotine laced smoke has to offer.   
  
But as he stands there, hesitant, the faintest brush of air drifts past him from the gaps in the elevator shaft, bringing with it the subtle but discernible scent of sulfur.  
  
That is all it takes. His body jolts into shocked movement, his legs carrying him speedily towards the stairwell and away form the welcoming light source. He has absolutely no contingency for being hunted by a serial murderer, without clothing, at night, in the middle of winter.   
  
Funny how the threat of death has him swallowing his pride as he runs along the hallway slamming his fist into his neighbors doors. His shouts for aid go unheeded, and he is forced further down the building as the smell of Not-Harry-Bordon grows stronger.  
  
John's heart is beating in his chest wildly as he gives up trying to get the attention of his arse hole neighbors. Instead he opts for running, his bare feet slap against cold concrete, quickly going numb at the toes. He shoulder barges through the heavy door at the end of the hall and it swings open hard, slamming into the door-stop with a jarring bang as his momentum carries him down the first flight of stairs.

The adrenaline keeps him going dangerously fast downward in the dim light. He can hear the eerie buzzing of insects now, echoing off the walls. His growing panic drives him to go faster, even as he stumbles and nearly plunges head first into the banister.   
  
When he reaches the first floor balcony he finally halts, his hearing strained as he waits for the buzzing of his pursuer. Cold sweat trickles down his neck as he stands perfectly still, holding his breath, dreading a cold grasping hand or a knife blade in the back, but there is only silence aside from his heavy breath.

If he isn't hallucinating or having one fucked up nightmare all he will have to do is get to the Super and have her let him back in his apartment. If he is in danger however, he needs to find a place to lay low, find some clothes and get to a phone or his car.

The Super is the most viable option unless he feels brave enough to make a mad dash down to the parking lot without his keys.  
  
His lungs ache. G _od he really has to cut back on the cigarettes_. He coughs several times as the tar in his chest stirs at the unfamiliar exercise.  
  
When he finally gets the hacking fit down to a tolerable level he begins a cautious approach to the final floor. The sweat cooling on his skin making him shiver all over again. He pushes through the stairwell door with tentative hands, ready to jerk back at the slightest sound or movement.  
  
He is met with cool and non-threatening florescent light, humming almost soothingly in the hallway. To John's left the double glass doors of the exit look out onto a calm, snow covered road illuminated by cheerful looking street-lamps, and not at all a serial killer with a swam of flies and roaches.  
  
There's not a soul in sight, but he has watched a large amount of horror films and has no wish to leave anything to chance he's waiting for the villain to pop out of the shadows and stab him.  
  
John takes a moment to glance in every perceivable direction before taking the chance. His feet pad quietly down the hall, past the reception office and towards the faded green door of the Superintendent.  
  
He takes in a deep breath, pausing with knuckles raised, knowing with no certain amount of dread that if there was someone hunting him down, this would be that part that alerts them to his presence.  
  
The door swings lazily open at the pressure of his knock, giving him a look into the pitch darkness of the room beyond. John swallows thickly and knocks louder on the already open door, already half convinced that he was in the throws of some nightmare.  
  
“Hello?” He calls tentatively. “Mrs Louis?” He takes a step into the room, one hand brushing along the wall beside the door in search of the light switch. “Mrs Louis? I'm in a bit of trouble. Your door was open. God, please, don't call the police, I just need the ke-” The light switch shifts to on under his hand, exposing the musty lounge.   
  
Pink couches covered in crochet blankets have been moved to face the door instead of the television in the corner. And sitting on that couch is a very dead Mrs Louis. Her empty eye sockets peer out of a pale and sagging face, her jaw hanging open in a silent scream.   
  
Constantine manages a gasp, his eyes nearly bulging out of his skull as he stands there, too shocked to move.

When a buzzing fly lands on his cheek he snaps to attention, jerking himself backward into the hallway, heart in his throat.

One fly turns into two, following him out of the room. John can't take his eyes off the old woman's corpse, insects are slowly dipping from her mouth to take flight of slither their way towards him, the numbers growing every passing moment.  
  
Constantine lets out a whine of distress, and grabs the door handle, pulling it shut forcefully not a moment before the buzzing erupts from the woman in multitudes.  
  
His heart jackhammer’s against his rib cage as he backs up, groping blindly for the wall. His eyes need time to re-adjust to the dark after the light of the Super's lounge.

He nearly screams when his back hits something solid. Does scream and jerk futilely when that solid object wraps around him, pinning his arms to his sides.  
  
"Hello, Johnny-Boy." The whispered hiss of voice against the flesh of his neck and ear sends a repulsed shiver up John's spine. The cloying smell of sulfur envelops him as the murderer behind him breathes against his flesh.  
  
John lets out a strangled sounding yelp, his legs bend with the effort of trying to push himself away, but the grip on him is like a vice, barely moving against his violent struggles. There isn't even so much as a hiss or flinch when John's bare feet kick at suited shins and boots.  
  
It's getting so hard to breathe with those arms crushing him that he has to stop screaming to maintain airflow. John's ribs ached, his poisoned lungs only manage wheezing gasps as the grip around him tightens.   
  
The huff of a laugh against the bare skin at his neck is the last thing he feels before a wave of dizziness pulls him into unconsciousness.  
  
  


 


	4. Let me count the ways

John wakes up to the sickening pale flicker of florescent bulbs stabbing into his retinas. The thick smell of old metal and oil and sulfur assault his nose and he grimaces and squints into the light. A wave of nausea threatens to empty what little there is in his stomach as the room spins in a disorienting blur. He squeezes his eyes shut again until the world settles around him, trying not to focus on the tight restraints about his arms and legs.  
  
He's sitting, arms behind his back, hands clasped painfully together and legs parted and bound to the legs of the chair. His head aches so bad he thinks he might have cracked his skull open and let all the worms out.  
  
A groan escapes his lips that sounds more like a dog yelping than a grown man. It's followed by almost convulsive gagging. Nothing comes up and he holds his breath waiting for his stomach to settle.  
  
He counts to ten and opens his eyes slowly.  
  
The blinking light reveals an unfamiliar setting, the room is small and warm enough that the air feels heavy in his aching lungs. The dusty ground under his feet is solid concrete and cool against his skin. The hum and metallic bulk of machinery surrounds him as large lumbering shapes in the dim light, slightly blurred due to the migraine pounding behind his eyes.  
  
John stares uncomprehendingly for several minutes until his brain decides to catch up. He is tied to a chair in a boiler room, likely under the apartment complex. A frown creases his brow at the sudden realization.

 _God this_ is _a stupid horror movie cliché._  
  
If he weren't shitting himself he might have started laughing. He is sure he has seen this movie before, is old Freddy going to make a guest appearance? __  
  
John debates crying out for help, but the idea of alerting Not-Harry to his waking state is not an outcome he really wants to risk. So instead he starts testing his restrained wrists against the rope binding him. His eyes dart around the room with hopeful enthusiasm, a misplaced rusty pipe or a rough bolt he can wiggle towards will do to free him. It works in the movies. All the while his mind is running through thoughts such as: what a pity it will be to miss out on all that cancer in his lungs, and how he really hopes to live long enough to have to be on dialysis.  
  
"Tch tch, Johnny-boy, I was hoping for more of a fight from you." The sound of that practiced quiet voice makes John jump-- though not terribly high with the seat strapped to his backside. He tries to spin his head around to see his assailant, who remains just out of view.

“Would you just piss off!” John groans, trying to catch a glimpse of the man in his peripheral vision.

At last a grey shape approaches as Not-Harry-Bordon steps up beside him and rests a manicured hand on the naked flesh of John's shoulder. The muscle underneath his palm twitches with a repulsed spasm.  
  
"I'm afraid not. I think it's time we got to that little chat, hm?" The mismatched suit and tie comes into view as Not-Harry walks leisurely in front of John, one maintaining contact with the professors shoulder, the other flicking that missing coin across his knuckles mockingly. A smirk forms over his lips as his dark eyes take in the prize before him with satisfaction.  
  
John swallows thickly, his mind working to the inevitable conclusion of this whole dramatic scene between hunter and prey.  
  
_God he needs a cigarette_. That, he decides, is going to be his last request.  
  
"You took far longer, to find me this time." Not-Harry continues, the hand resting on John's shoulder trails up his neck and along his jaw line like a caress. He pushes John's face to the side, enjoying the power he holds over the bound man. "But watching you fall apart was worth the wait." He smiles that joyless smile again, his dark eyes seem to flash red in the flickering light.  
  
"Is this when you tell me your evil master plan, Freddy Kruegar?" John rasps out then lets out a semi hysterical giggle, unsure of his own bravado. If he's going to die, he's going to be mouthy about the whole thing; let Not-Harry know he is a walking cliché. He might be able to antagonize the killer into making a mistake, or at the very least, killing him faster.  
  
"Please," The manicured hand slips away from John's face to examine the wet traces left behind by John's nervous sweat. "Give me a little more credit." John's eyes widen with shock as Harry's tongue darts out, tasting his fingers. "You always do taste better when you are afraid."  
  
"Oh I get it now," John speaks his revelation with as much patronizing awe as he can muster. "You're not a criminal mastermind, you're just a massive pervert." He feels a certain amount of pride when Harry's placid visage cracks just a tad to expose irritation. Constantine has never been very good at keeping his mouth shut.  
  
Harry leans forward, bending in half to be at eye level with John. His gaze narrows under perfect dark eyebrows before he inhales deeply. Almost red-brown eyes close with imagined bliss. When he speaks again his voice is lower, condescending.  
  
"Tell me Johnny-Boy, has something been nagging at your mind? Something you can't quite put your finger on?" He rest his hands on John's shoulders, his face is so close to John's it's hard to avoid looking into his eyes. "The sense that you know something wrong but it's just not quite getting through?" John glares at him, ready to make another stinging rhetoric when he hears that familiar dreadful buzzing in the darkness around him. "How about: How can a man possibly control all these lovely insects?"  
  
The pests swarm out of the dark, surrounding John with their inky black bodies. They land and crawl over his skin, prickly legs digging in. John can't hold back the cry of fear that leaves his throat, he jerks in his restraints ineffectually trying to get away. Thousands of tiny legs and wings writhe against him until body is vibrating with the hum of activity.  
  
Not-Harry breathes in deep once more, smiling a blissful smile as he takes in the sour reek of John's fear. He leans forward with an appreciative hum and drags a hot tongue along Constantine’s jaw line.  
  
"Finger-licking good." He hisses in John's ear.  
  
John is beyond disgust, but his panic as the insects climbed up his chest make the killers actions less important. He is having a hard enough time sucking air into his aching lungs and can't spare the energy to curse at the other man.  
  
"Do you know how many times I've been able to kill you John?" Harry straightens, continuing his speech as if he has all the time in the world. He releases his grip on Constantine's trembling shoulder, ignoring John's strangled yelps. "This will be the seventh," The suited man tugs his sleeve down his wrist and straightens his tie, the coin never pausing in it's rotation across his knuckles. "I have to tell you, it hasn't gotten old." A cold smile crosses those perfect lips once more as he looks down at John.  
  
"The best part is," Harry sighs with satisfaction, idly watching the bugs crawl up his captives neck and along his face. "While the real you lays in a pool of your own vomit and piss somewhere out there," He make a gesture into the air. "I get to be in your head until you breathe your last breath. And I can think of so many ways for us to have fun together until then."

John is screaming, unable to make sense of the mad man’s words through his panic. The insects find their way into his skin, burrowing through the tissue. He chokes on the flies in his mouth as he breathes them into his lungs. He can taste them on his tongue and feel their painful kisses against his throat. All he can do is stare, wild eyed at his tormentor.  
  
"Time stands still in my world, John. I can make so many new places for us to play in this shitty little head of yours, we can have our own little eternity together." Harry's dark eyes smirk at John's struggling limbs and desperate choked yells.  
  
It's the the last thing John Constantine sees before the insects take his eyes.

In the darkness, as his heart fills with worms and flies, it all comes flooding back like a loosed dam. John knows the name of the demon before him. He knows that voice, that smell, that face. The symbol on the coin that the half-demon flicked over his knuckles.  
  
He remembers sending the half demon to the pits of hell.  
  
Balthazar.

 


End file.
